


Dog Days

by roebling



Series: Calling the Moon [2]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Injury, M/M, One Shot, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-27
Updated: 2010-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Did werewolves even fall in love? Brendon had absolutely no idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Days

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is curious, in my mind werewolf!Spencer looks like a [Belgian Malinois](http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=belgian%20malinois&biw=1152&bih=527&tbm=isch).

"Seriously, one morning I'm going to forget and step on your face and break your nose," Brendon said. "It'll end up healing all crooked and I'll have to tell people you're a veteran of the Kontinental Hockey League."

Spencer made a face. "I don't even know what that is," he said, grumpily. He was hovering near the coffee maker, waiting for the tedious drip to stop. Spencer was kind of nutty about coffee. "If you don't want to break my nose, just don't forget I'm there."

Brendon frowned. "You have a bed," he said. "It might have come from Craigslist, but you do have a bed."

"I have a futon," Spencer said. The coffee had finished and he poured some for the both of them, adding milk to both and sugar to Brendon's.

"Fine," Brendon said. "But it has to be more comfortable than sleeping on my bedroom floor!" The toaster popped and he set to work buttering the toast.

Spencer shrugged. "Not really," he said. "Sleeping on the floor is good for your back."

"How do you know that?" Brendon asked.

"My mom was a nurse in a chiropractor's office," Spencer said. "But it's common knowledge, dude."

Brendon paused in the middle of cutting the stack of toast in two. Everyone had a mother -- Brendon knew that, of course -- but Spencer had never mentioned his before. Everything before the night Brendon had found him hurt and brought him home was still sketched as the vaguest outline. Three months on, and Brendon still didn't feel like he had any right to ask.

"Well it's weird," Brendon said, darkly. He sat down at the table across from Spencer, who stirring his coffee and rifling through a day old paper for the crossword puzzle. "What was the point of clearing all that crap out of the spare room if you aren't going to sleep there?"

Spencer shrugged. "That was your idea."

"But you helped!" Brendon said.

Spencer looked up. "You asked me to help," he said. He met Brendon's eyes and didn't look away; he had a way of staring sometimes that was a little too direct and -- frankly -- wolfish for comfort. "Besides, you had so much crap in there that you never used. It was a waste of space."

That was just like Spencer: completely inexplicable on one hand, and on the other all calm reason and perfect sense.

Brendon took a sip of coffee and a bite of toast. The bread had been on its way to stale, and it wasn't much improved by butter and jelly. "If you're not sleeping there, isn't it still wasted space?" he asked, mouth half full.

Spencer shook his head. "I slept in your room before," he said.

"That was different," Brendon said. Brendon hadn't minded when his pet dog slept by his bed; it was actually kind of comforting. But Spencer -- that was just completely different.

"It really wasn't," Spencer said. He got up to pour himself more coffee, and refilled Brendon's mug without asking. "You just don't get it," he said, returning his attention to his crossword puzzle.

Brendon really, really didn't.

He pushed his chair back from the table and dumped his dirty dishes in the sink. Spencer would wash them; he did every day, insisting that tidying up was the least he could do. Really, Brendon suspected him of being half-wolf, half-Martha Stewart sometimes. He'd completely reorganized the pantry and Brendon's closet, and mopped the floors every other day. The house was so clean Brendon sometimes felt like he needed to shower before stepping through the front door.

"I'm gonna go," he said.

Spencer nodded. "See you later," he mumbled, never looking up from the newspaper.

"Yeah," Brendon muttered under his breath.

He sat in the car for a moment before pull out of the driveway. It was summer, and ominously hot for nine in the morning. Later, the heat would be unbearable. He'd worked last night, his fourth shift this week, and gotten home late. He felt his weariness in every bone of his body. Two cups of coffee were enough to keep him upright, but not much more. Two hours of class were tantamount to torture.

That was half Spencer's fault, too. It was his encouragement that had finally gotten Brendon off his ass and registered for a couple of classes at the community college. It had seemed like a decent idea at the time, especially because Spencer promised to help Brendon study, but now it was just another tedious obligation. As much as he enjoyed the readings when he managed to do them, Western Civ I and Intro to Music Theory weren't exactly going to make Brendon into some kind of stellar job prospect.

Brendon's only consolation that morning was that his Western Civ class was held in an auditorium. He got there right before the lecture started and crept into a seat way in the back of the room. The professor, way down at the lectern, was doll-sized. Brendon took out his notebook, but the odds of any notes being looked to be slim. He rested his chin on his elbow and stared at his phone, secreted in his lap. Shane wanted him to come over and check out some footage he'd shot that weekend. Brendon tapped out a reply, saying he'd be over after class, but he hesitated. It wasn't fair to leave Spencer alone, but he'd been blowing Shane off a lot lately, and that wasn't exactly fair either.

He pressed send.

He got a sandwich at the student center and ate it slowly while paging through his Western Civ book. The text was minuscule and dreary, but the illustrations and maps were interesting enough. Brendon hadn't taken world history in high school. He didn't remember any of it, at least. Those teenage struggles were blurry behind the veil of the intervening years; the memories were nothing precious.

Brendon turned the page and frowned. The picture was of a crude statue of a wolf suckling two babies. Brendon remembered the story from lecture -- the babies were Remus and Romulus, the founders of Rome, and the wolf was their foster mother.

He shuddered, and shut the book. It meant something, he was pretty sure, even if he didn't know what.

On his way home he called Shane to ask if it was alright if he brought a friend.

When Brendon pulled into the driveway, Spencer was mowing the front lawn. He was almost done, in fact, and his bare shoulders and back were sweat-damp. Brendon stared at his lap and breathed in and out once, twice, three times. Spencer heard the slam of the car door over the mechanical whine of the mower. He shut it off, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Hey," he said. "I thought you were gonna stay at school."

Brendon shrugged. "Yeah. I got bored." Spencer was wearing a pair of Brendon's sweatpants; they sat low enough on Spencer's hips to reveal the pinkish-white scar on his side. "Do you want to go to Shane and Regan's in a little bit?"

Spencer's eyes narrowed. "As ... to play with Dylan and Indie?" he asked, hesitantly.

"No! No. For a barbecue," Brendon said, cringing.

Spencer visibly relaxed. His smile was wide and pleased. "Sure. Yeah, that would be great."

Brendon offered to put away the lawn mower so Spencer could go in and shower. He dragged it through the back yard to the shed. He felt uneasy, off balance. He'd screwed things up so many times. Three months, and he was only just inviting Spencer to meet Shane. Not that they hadn't met;Shane had been the first of Brendon's friends to meet his new stray dog, and even after Brendon had found out that Spencer wasn't just some dumb mutt, he'd idiotically agreed when Shane asked him to bring 'Fluffy' over to play with Indie and Dylan. The distinction between his pet dog and his roommate Spencer hadn't yet eroded then; Spencer dutifully fetched the tennis balls Shane threw that day, but he spent the next week barely speaking to Brendon.

He'd been pretty justified in being pissed off, in retrospect. Brendon had been such an idiot. If there were a book entitled Top Ten Mistakes Not to Make When You Realize Your Pet Dog Is a Werewolf, Brendon was pretty sure his picture would be on the cover.

Brendon puttered in the kitchen while waiting for Spencer. They needed to go grocery shopping, but that would have to wait until Brendon got paid. Spencer kept making noise about getting some kind of job, but he didn't have a driver's license or a social security card or any fucking kind of ID, which made it pretty impossible. Brendon picked up extra shifts at the bar and they made it work, but still, he knew Spencer felt like he wasn't pulling his weight. Brendon wanted to suggest that they write the County Clerk and see if they could get a copy of his birth certificate, but he didn't even know where Spencer was born. He knew nothing. Spencer had never told him.

Spencer came downstairs barefoot, wearing a pair of worn jeans and a flannel shirt he'd gotten from the thrift store.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

(For all that it was easy at times to forget what Spencer was, he struggled with the simplest things. Either his time as a wolf had seriously screwed with his sense of style or he had an as of yet undisclosed fetish for early twenty-first century pop-punk, because when they'd gone to try to find him some clothes he'd bee-lined for a rack of baggy cargo shorts and over-sized tee shirts. "If you want to dress like I did when I was in ninth grade, it's fine by me," Brendon said. Spencer frowned, but allowed Brendon to steer him towards a rack of vaguely age appropriate jeans.)

"You look fine," Brendon said. That was something of an understatement; Spencer looked incredible. But then, he usually did in Brendon's opinion.

The drive over to Shane's was short; Spencer stared out the window and Brendon wasn't in the mood to force conversation. He parked down the block. Spencer unbuckled his seatbelt and frowned.

"You sure you're cool with this?" he asked.

"With what?" Brendon's tone was guileless. "You already know Shane, dude. Just think of this as a re-introduction."

"That's not what I meant," Spencer muttered.

Shane opened the door with a beer in one hand and the dogs yapping at his feet. Spencer hung back, hesitating. Brendon put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently forward.

"Shane, this is my friend Spencer."

Shane grinned. "Nice to meet you," he said.

"You too," Spencer said.

The dogs had crept forward out of the house. They sniffed Spencer's feet and ankles intently. Then they both started jumping and barking, their tiny paws pressed into Spencer's thigh. His eyes widened. He reached down and patted Indie, awkwardly, but that just made them yap all the louder.

"Sorry," Shane said, reaching for their collars. "They're not usually like this. They must smell something on you. Do you have a dog?"

Spencer made a choking sound. "Uh, no," he said. "Not exactly."

After Shane shut the dogs in one of the bedrooms, Spencer relaxed. Brendon could see it in the way the set of his shoulders eased. He didn't know what it meant that he could read Spencer so easily. Regan was at the grocery store so they grabbed some beers from the fridge and went to Shane's studio. Shane's good intentions went quickly down hill; they started out looking at the rough cut of the music video he's shot, but before long they were on YouTube, watching videos of a tiny pig playing piano. Brendon perched on the arm of the couch, peering over Shane's shoulder. Spencer was sprawled out beside him, an easy smile on his face. Brendon glanced over at him, and Spencer's smile broadened. He reached up and gently placed a hand on Brendon's back. Brendon arched into his touch. The beer made everything soft and content, and what he wanted mostly was to fall backwards off the arm of the couch into Spencer's lap and ...

Shane cleared his throat. He was watching them with a bemused expression on his face. Brendon straightened up, and Spencer seemed to find the floor suddenly fascinating. Shane smirked but pressed play on the next video without saying a word.

When Spencer excused himself to go to the bathroom Shane leaned towards Brendon conspiratorially and asked, "Dude, so how long have you been hooking up with him?"

Brendon felt his face heat up. "It's not like that," he said. "He's just a friend."

Shane raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because I totally know what you look like when you're into someone, Bren, and you're into that dude hardcore."

Brendon's head dropped. "I guess so, yeah. He's not ... we haven't done anything."

"Well why not?" Shane frowned. "He's hot, he's nice, and he's obviously into you. What's the problem?"

Brendon closed his eyes. "You wouldn't get it," he mumbled.

Shane shook his head. "You need to go for it, Bren. You've been waiting around for the man of your dreams to find you, but it's time for you to take charge."

"You have been reading way too many of Regan's girly magazines," Brendon said, laughing.

Shane raised an eyebrow. "Damn right. I know deflection when I see it."

Spencer came back from the bathroom then, and they watched a video of a baby sloth eating scraps of lettuce. It was the cutest thing Brendon had ever seen. When Regan came home they all helped her carry the groceries into the house. Shane lit the grill. Spencer and Brendon shucked corn on the cob. It was messy work; a few strands of the pale silk got stuck in Spencer's hair (several shades darker, but just as fine and soft). Brendon reached over and brushed them away. Spencer looked up, quick. His eyes were bright under the dark shadow of his lashes.

"You had something ..." Brendon gestured vaguely.

Spencer smiled. "Thanks," he said, and reached for another ear of corn.

The blue sky darkened and the heat let up marginally. Joe arrived around five, and Zack and his girlfriend a little while later. Spencer was calm and friendly as he was introduced, even when Zack started to grill him about how he knew Brendon. (He said they'd met in the dog park. Brendon bit back his laughter at that clever lie.) Joe cornered Brendon on the deck and started talking enthusiastically about some band he'd seen the other weekend; he was one of the only people Brendon knew with a passion for music that equaled his own. When Joe excused himself to get another beer, Brendon realized three quarters of an hour had passed. Zack and Shane stood in front of the grill, arguing over when to flip the burgers. Ian and some of the guys from the bar had showed up and were trying to figure out how to play horseshoes in the ancient spit behind the house. A few of Regan's girlfriends sat in beach chairs drinking brightly colored drinks. Before he'd come out, Regan had tried to set him up with one of them, a pretty, petite girl named Sarah. She waved, and Brendon waved back.

The night was clear and almost perfect. Citronella candles glowed on the table. The yard was full of friends and conversation. Spencer, however, was nowhere to be seen. Brendon quashed the irrational impulse towards panic that fluttered in his belly; Spencer was a grown man and he really didn't need Brendon keeping tabs on him. Intellectually, Brendon knew that, and yet his first instinct was to treat him like a lost dog. There was something so incredibly fucked up about that line of thought that Brendon decided he needed another drink.

But as he opened the sliding door to head to the kitchen, he came face to face with Spencer, who wore a gaudy hibiscus print apron tied around his neck and carried a serving bowl in his hand.

"Shut up," he said, before Brendon had so much as opened his mouth. "I'm helping Regan, which is more than I can say for you."

Brendon grinned. "I was going to say that you look adorable. You're going to make someone a great wife someday."

Spencer scowled but stepped aside to let Brendon into the house.

Regan was at the kitchen counter, cutting up melon for a fruit salad. She smiled when she saw Brendon. "Your boyfriend makes some pretty mean macaroni salad," she said.

Brendon froze with beer and bottle opener in hand. "What?"

"Spencer's been helping me all night. He's kind of awesome, Bren. Don't tell Shane, but I might elope with him."

"He's not my boyfriend," Brendon protested.

Regan rolled her eyes. "Please, Brendon. Maybe you're not calling him that, but you're stupid about him. What are you waiting for?"

Brendon opened his mouth and then closed it stubbornly. A drop of condensation from the beer bottle ran down his wrist. He waited because he was afraid that Spencer stayed with him only because he had nowhere else to go, afraid that if Spencer did say yes it would only be because he felt he owed Brendon, afraid that Spencer wasn't interested him at all, maybe wasn't interested in any regular person. Did werewolves even fall in love? Brendon had absolutely no idea.

Regan shook her head. "Men are idiots," she said, fondly. "Just ask him if he wants to make it official or something. I don't think you have anything to worry about."

Brendon smiled weakly. He was not so sure.

Spencer drove home that night because Brendon had a little too much to drink. He had his cell phone out to call a cab when Spencer reached for his keys.

"I can drive, you know," he said. "I just don't like to do it without a license." He was smiling a little, like he'd made some great joke.

He stood straight and seemed especially tall and Brendon resisted the urge to lean heavily and let Spencer bear his weight as they walked to the car.

"Oh," he said, dumbly. "Yeah."

Brendon fell asleep during the ride. Spencer woke him with a gentle touch on the shoulder. Brendon's neighborhood was isolated; everything was still and silent. The moon was suspended over the dark mass of the mountains, pearly and nearly ripe. Brendon glanced at Spencer, but he seemed not to notice. Three months and four lunar cycles had passed, and Spencer never said anything about it at all.

The world was soft and kind and Brendon collapsed on the couch as soon as he was inside the front door.

"Tonight was fuuuun," he said, sing-song.

Spencer sat down in the armchair. "It was," he said. "Thanks for inviting me."

"I should have introduced you to them sooner," Brendon mumbled. "They really liked you. Everyone really liked you."

Spencer laughed a little. "Good," he said. "Did you think they were going to run away screaming?"

Brendon struggled to sit up, and his head spun. "No," he said. "Dude, no way. I never said that. Why would you say that?"

"Brendon, calm down," Spencer said. "I was just messing with you. I get that it's weird. You don't have to pretend that it's not."

"It's not," Brendon protested. "Nobody even had any idea."

"But you knew," Spencer said. "It's weird for you."

"It's not," Brendon said again, stubborn. He wanted it so badly not to make a difference.

Spencer sighed and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. He turned on some dreary all night news channel. Brendon closed his eyes. He held on to a thread of wakefulness; if he let go, he'd be asleep in a moment.

"Go to bed," Spencer said. "You're falling asleep."

"Mmnot," Brendon muttered into the couch cushions.

"Yes you are," Spencer said, laughingly.

"Can't sleep until you're there," Brendon said. In his haze of drunken exhaustion, that almost seemed like something that he could say without being completely mortified.

Spencer stood slowly. "Come on," he said. "I'll come up with you."

They said nothing as they went upstairs. Brendon went to get changed. He heard the squeak of the bathroom door, the rush of the tap as Spencer brushed his teeth. He stripped out of his jeans and shirt and pulled on a pair of pajama pants. He lay down on his bed without undoing the covers. His door opened. Spencer dragged a blanket behind him. He spread it out in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. Brendon reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"Just sleep up here with me," he said.

Spencer's eyes were silvery in the darkness. Brendon wanted to know if it was different, if he saw differently. "Your bed's pretty small," he said, at last.

"It's fine," Brendon said. He rolled all the way to the far side and tucked himself up as tightly as he could. "Come on."

The bed creaked as Spencer settled. The bed was small, but neither of them were exactly big guys and Brendon was glad to shuffle backwards and curl into the curve of Spencer's body. They held themselves stiff and apart for a moment, then Spencer relaxed and pressed his nose into Brendon's shoulder and threw his arm over Brendon's waist. Outside the open window, some bird called. The miniature symphony of night noises echoed loud.

"Are you spooning me?" Brendon whispered.

Spencer shifted, but he didn't pull away. "Yes," he muttered. "Shut up."

Brendon smiled into the comforter and slept.

After that night, things were different, even if they weren't exactly how Brendon hoped they'd be. Spencer seemed happy enough to sleep in Brendon's bed, although he grumbled at first about the lumpy mattress and his aching neck. Once or twice a week they hung out with Shane and Regan or Zack. Spencer never complained about being home all day with nothing to do, but Brendon worried about him less anyway. The oddness of having someone else in the house had worn off. Brendon looked forward to coming home from the bar at night to finding Spencer drowsing on the couch. If it wasn't too late, he would make Spencer scoot over and squeeze in next to him. Brendon was always pretty keyed up after working, and there was usually some movie on late at night ridiculous enough to be worth watching. Spencer would valiantly try to keep himself awake, but after awhile he'd yawn widely and lay his head in Brendon's lap. Brendon carded his fingers through Spencer's soft hair, scratched gently behind his ear. It was just ... nice.

Nice, but not as nice as it could be. Spencer slept in Brendon's bed, and they snuggled on the couch at night, but he never tried to kiss Brendon, and Brendon couldn't work up the nerve to kiss him. He couldn't help but think that maybe this was just the way that werewolves were; wolves lived in packs and in some bizarre way Brendon was part of Spencer's pack, right? Maybe all werewolves lived together in happy, cuddly families and thought nothing of sleeping on top of each other. Spencer probably thought of Brendon as his annoying kid brother.

That possibility made Brendon sick to his stomach.

He was not consoled when he came home from class one day to find Spencer busy on the laptop. He looked up when Brendon walked and grinned.

"I had an awesome idea," he said. "I'm going to be a dog walker. I'm putting an ad up now."

"That is not an awesome idea," Brendon said. "That's a terrible idea. You're going to be miserable."

Spencer made a face. "Come on, it's not going to be that bad. Dogs love me. Plus, I know how sucky it is to be dragged away when you're just trying investigate an awesome smell. I'm going to be a great dog walker."

Brendon dropped his bag on the couch. "An awesome smell, huh? I guess you do have an advantage there, Fluffy." He ruffled Spencer's hair fondly.

"Oh fuck you. I still can't believe you were going to call me Fluffy," Spencer grumbled. "I'm a werewolf, not a poodle."

"That was all Shane," Brendon said. Inside, he thrilled. Spencer never talked about the whole werewolf thing, and there was so much that Brendon wanted to know. "You do make a pretty cute dog, though. I thought werewolves were supposed to be like huge and menacing with razor sharp claws and glowing red eyes."

Spencer rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were pink. "You watch way too many bad movies." He cleared his throat. "Um, I'm not exactly your stereotypical werewolf. You should see some of my packmates. I don't think you'd have carried them into your kitchen that night."

"Aw, Spence, are you the adorable runt of your litter?" Brendon asked teasingly.

Spencer shrugged awkwardly. "No, not exactly. I wasn't always ... I was bitten two weeks before my seventeenth birthday. If I had been a little older, nothing probably would have happened at all. I don't really know how it works, but if an adult is bitten by a werewolf, it's no different than being bitten by a regular wolf or whatever. The transformation only works when children are bitten. I guess I was young enough to transform, but it was ... not as potent as it should have been." He spread his hands.

Brendon bit his lip. "Hence, Fluffy?"

Spencer smiled wryly, but said nothing. He turned back to the laptop. "Seriously though. I'm going to be the best dog walker ever. In the ad I said that I was in touch with the canine spirit."

Brendon snorted. He didn't call Spencer out on the blatant change of topic. "Your dream is to become the next dog whisperer, isn't it?"

"Please," Spencer said, laughing. "That guy is such a hack."

They spent the afternoon screening the emails Spencer got. Most of them were from people that seemed borderline desperate and a little crazy. Brendon read them aloud to Spencer in various affected voices. One woman attached a twelve page PDF document outlining her papillon's dietary restrictions, phobias, and 'urination schedule'. Joli, the briefing read, had an overly excitable temperament. Exposure to other dogs would lead to a nervous episode; thus, it was essential that her caregiver diligently monitor the environment for negative stimuli.

None of the emails seemed especially promising. Spencer leaned backwards and stared at the ceiling. "I didn't realize people were so crazy," he said. "My family had a dog when I was growing up, and we weren't that crazy. He just kind of ... did dog stuff."

"The world is going to hell," Brendon said cheerfully. "I just read this article about a woman in Miami who left her chihuahua three million bucks. She only left her son a hundred grand, and he sued the dog."

Spencer groaned and hung his head.

"Cheer up," Brendon said. "You're gonna get more responses." He grabbed Spencer by the wrist to pull him to his feet. "Let's go get some disgusting fast food for dinner and rent a really awful movie. That always puts me in a good mood."

That night, athough he was calm and sleepy, Brendon laid awake. Spencer slept silently, a warm constant. The sheets were prickly and stiff and the water gurgled loudly through the baseboards. He hunched his shoulders, then rolled over onto his back. Beside him, Spencer stirred.

"What are you doing?" he mumbled. "Go to sleep."

"I'm trying," Brendon said. He squirmed and then stilled. The streetlight on the corner shone through the open window. The bulb was getting old and it flickered and sputtered. Brendon folded back the covers and stepped softly across the room to close the blind. Spencer drew the covers over him when he came back to bed, and rubbed soothingly the soft spot right under Brendon's ribs.

"Do you miss them?" Brendon asked.

"What?" Spencer pulled back, his fingers trailing over Brendon's side.

"Your pack. Do you miss them?" Brendon rolled so that he could see Spencer's face.

"No," he said, without hesitation. "I don't know. They hated me, most of them. They thought I was too human." His eyes were nearly closed.

"I'm sorry," Brendon said.

"It's okay," Spencer said. "It wasn't ... they weren't all like that. But no, I don't miss it."

"Good," Brendon whispered. He pushed closer and pressed his mouth against Spencer's neck. "I'm glad you're here now."

Spencer leaned forward fractionally, so their foreheads just touched. "I'm glad I'm here, too."

After that, they slept.

The next day Brendon woke late. The sharp, white midday sun glared through the window; he sweated, pocketed in the blanket's warmth. His neck ached inexplicably. He felt like he could only barely keep himself upright. He leaned heavily on the banister as he went downstairs. The living room was disordered: stray kernels of popcorn littered the floor and Brendon's jacket was thrown over the arm of the couch. The DVDs they'd watched the night before were stacked precariously on the edge of the coffee table. A pair of dirty socks lay balled under the edge of the couch. Brendon was glad that Spencer hadn't rushed to clean up first thing in the morning; the mess made the house feel cozy and well lived-in.

Some delicious smell drew Brendon towards the kitchen. Spencer stood at the stove, still wearing only his pajama pants. The counters were covered in flour, and a pan sizzled on one of the burners.

"Oh my god. This must be a dream," Brendon said. "Are you making pancakes?"

"Yup. I borrowed the car to go to the store," Spencer said. "I hope that's okay."

"Are you kidding? You're making pancakes! You have first dibs on the car any time you plan on making me pancakes."

Brendon poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. The urge to go hook his chin over Spencer's shoulder or wrap his arms around Spencer's waist was pressing. He wanted that, but he would take anything Spencer offered freely.

"You really don't have to do stuff like this," he said.

Spencer looked over his shoulder. "Cook breakfast? Sorry, dude, but if I left it up to you, we'd be eating cereal every day."

"Cinnamon Toast Crunch is the breakfast of champions, Spence," Brendon protested.

Spencer arched an eyebrow. "Then I guess I'll just keep these delicious blueberry pancakes for myself."

"Oh no, I never said that! Variety is the spice of life also," Brendon said. "Seriously, though. I don't want you to feel like you've got to go out of your way to earn your keep."

"I don't mind," Spencer said. "It's not like you asked for a freeloading, socially impaired roommate."

"You're not socially impaired, please. My friends like you better than they like me," Brendon said, rolling his eyes. "And you're not a freeloader."

"Yeah," Spencer said, setting a plate of pancakes in front of Brendon. "You say that but ..."

"But nothing," Brendon said. "I know what it's like to go through a rough spot, dude." He paused to cut his pancakes into irregular squares and douse them with spirits. "My parents kicked me out when I turned eighteen. If I wanted to make my own rules and ignore theirs, I could do it outside of their household, they said. I had literally the clothes on my back and whatever I could throw into a suitcase. Shane let me stay with him for almost a year."

"I'm so sorry," Spencer said. "That sucks." He turned off the stove and joined Brendon at the table.

Brendon waved a hand dismissively. "I'm not looking for sympathy," he said. "It sucked and it still sucks, but my point is, I know what it's like to need help."

"I know," Spencer said. "I just hate feeling like I'm out of options." He sighed and sipped his coffee. He looked tired, Brendon realized; the skin under his eyes was translucent mauve. Had he slept last night, or had these worries kept him up?

"You chose to stay," Brendon said, after a moment. "You had options, and you chose to stay."

Spencer's blue eyes widened, but he sounded relieved. "Yeah," he said. "I did."

A few days later Spencer made Brendon drive him over to a well-manicured split level out towards the freeway. Brendon stood awkwardly to the side as a young woman named Haley introduced them to her herd of boxers. The dogs took to Spencer right away, wagging their little stubby tails and grinning stupidly. Spencer crouched down and scratched them each behind the ear in turn. Haley took to Spencer too, if the bright smiles she gave him were any indication. Brendon felt a tug of jealousy in his gut -- perhaps unwarranted, but he still wasn't sure. Spencer left with the understanding that he'd come over four days a week to play with the dogs for an couple of hours. He grinned happily as he shook Haley's hand, and Brendon told himself it was simply because he'd found his first client. Still, he couldn't be sure. Haley was an attractive woman, Brendon recognized, and there was still too much about Spencer he didn't know.

"She was pretty good looking, huh?" Brendon asked nonchalantly, as they waited at a red light.

"Milo?" Spencer asked, confused. "Sure, she's a beautiful dog. She's such a nice reddish fawn color, with that white flash ..." He trailed off. "What?"

Brendon laughed and laughed. "Oh man. Not the dog, Spence. I meant Haley."

"Oh. Oh," Spencer stammered. He flushed. "I didn't really pay attention, to be honest with you. I was kind of focused on the dogs."

Shaking his head, Brendon said, "I can tell."

After Spencer started walking Haley's dogs, the summer settled into a comfortable pattern. Brendon worked at night and had class during the day, and Spencer did his dog walking thing. He picked up a few more clients, and was making pretty decent money. Brendon didn't care that Spencer suddenly insisted on paying the electric bill and splitting the groceries; the money didn't matter, but he could tell Spencer was happier with some kind of purpose. After hearing a couple of the birdbrained kids in Western Civ talk about sneaking into one of the casinos down on the strip, he came up with the brilliant idea of getting Spencer a fake ID. He griped and groused as they waited in the seedy head shop, and he complained the picture was terrible, but afterward Brendon noticed he didn't act like a fugitive from justice every time he took the car.

They went camping on the weekends, when Brendon's schedule allowed. Spencer never said anything but Brendon saw how he stared out at the mountains sometimes, how he would stay out on the back porch in the evening until the stars were muted only by the garish glow of the lights downtown. On Friday afternoons they'd throw a bunch of stuff in the back seat of Brendon's car and drive an hour and a half to the state park. They spent a day or so hiking and swimming and when they got back home Spencer was calmer and spent less time cleaning light fixtures and refolding all of Brendon's spare sheets.

Brendon had a few days off of work one week in August, so instead of going to the park nearby, they drove north to an area Brendon hadn't visited since he was a child. They pitched the tent (Brendon held the stakes and handed them to Spencer as they were needed: a critical job) and went to the little grocery store in town to pick up some hot dogs and beer. Hanging on a rack beside the register were a few dusty pans of Jiffy Pop.

"We have to get some, Spence," Brendon said, tugging on his sleeve.

Spencer made a face and pulled away. "That stuff's been hanging there since before either of us were born."

Brendon rolled his eyes and tossed it in their basket. He didn't think popcorn was something particularly inclined to going bad.

That afternoon, they hiked up into the mountains, following a path that wound through fir forests and scrub. Brendon found a smooth, bare branch that made a perfect hiking stick. It served no practical purpose but made him feel like a genuine mountaineer. He led the way; Spencer followed behind. He'd been touchy and silent most of the morning. Brendon shared in his unease, and talked more than normal to make up for it. He told a long and somewhat pointless story about Ian and Cash, two of the guys from work. Spencer laughed when it was appropriate, but it was halfhearted. Eventually Brendon gave up, and the only noise was that of their boots crunching over the carpet of needles.

After a long time, they emerged from the green shadow of the forest into the late afternoon sunshine. The path terminated abruptly at the edge of a placid blue lake, maybe fifty feet across.

"I didn't know there was a lake," Brendon said, frowning. "Did you know there was a lake?"

Spencer nodded, distracted. "Yeah," he said. "I smelled it a while ago." He stared out at the far shore, but there was nothing to be seen except for a few geese bathing.

"Oh," Brendon said. "Huh. Well, we should go swimming."

"I left my swim trunks down at the tent," Spencer said, frowning. "I didn't think ..."

"That's not a problem," Brendon said, already tugging off his tee shirt. "We can go skinny dipping, dude. If you're nervous, leave your shorts on."

"I'm not nervous," Spencer said dismissively as he started to unbutton his shirt.

Brendon left his clothes in a messy heap at the foot of a tree, far enough away from the water that they'd stay dry. The lake was cold, even in the hot of summer. He took a tentative step in, and then another. He looked back over his shoulder. Spencer had neatly folded his own clothing and tucked his socks inside his shoes. Only his forearms were tan; the hair on his chest and belly was dark against pale skin. Brendon had seen Spencer in his underwear, had seen him naked even, but still he looked so beautiful standing in the bright light, slightly contrapposto (thank you, Western Civ), that Brendon's breath came short. It wasn't just that he was gorgeous, because he was but even more it was that he was Spencer, and Brendon had never known anyone so well and never cared for anyone so much.

"Come on," he said. "Don't be a wimp. It's not that cold."

"You're in up to your ankles," Spencer said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't believe you."

He was right; it was cold, but Brendon took a deep breath and charged into deeper water, kicking up spray as he went. He ducked underwater as soon as it was deep enough. The cold was a thrill. The bottom of the lake was covered with unsavory slimy things that made Brendon recoil when they brushed his ankle. He tread water and shook out his hair.

"Believe me now?" He smiled at Spencer, who had taken a step or two into the lake.

They swam for maybe an hour. Brendon proposed a race across to the far shore which he suspected Spencer let him win. He startled some waterbirds who nested in the grass at the water's edge and had to evade the furious mother. Spencer seemed content to paddle slowly in the deepest part of the lake. His wet hair stuck to his neck and fell in his face. Brendon wanted to smooth it back and fit his hand against the curve of Spencer's neck and kiss him. Instead he dove underwater and opened his eyes to peer through the amber murk.

When the sky was just tinted the deep indigo of early evening, Spencer got out of the water.

"It's getting later," he said, glancing up. "We should dry off."

"Spoilsport," Brendon said, but he climbed out and sat gingerly on patch of grass. The sun was hot despite the late hour. Brendon closed his eyes. It seemed like they were the only two people left in the whole world.

Spencer stood awkwardly on the beach, dripping dry.

"Come here," Brendon said, suddenly. Spencer stepped closer. Brendon reached out and closed a hand around his wrist to tug him down. Awkwardly he sat. Their knees touched. Water ran down Spencer's chest. Brendon twisted to face him, put a hand on his shoulder, and softly, fearful of rejection, kissed him.

Spencer's lips were soft, and everything smelled green and bright. His skin was warm under Brendon's hand. He was still and his eyelashes fluttered.

"Is this okay?" Brendon asked.

Spencer opened one eye. "I ... yes. Yes," he said, emphatic. "I didn't think you wanted ..."

"You are such an idiot," Brendon said fondly, drawing Spencer closer and tucking his water-dark hair behind his ear.

They kissed for a long time, softly. Spencer rolled onto his back. Pine needles stuck in his hair. Brendon rested on his elbows over him, slightly askew. Spencer was generous and kind in every moment. His skin was smooth. The sun was hot on Brendon's back. He wanted never to have to go back down to the camp at the foot of the mountain, never to have to go back to the little house he rented, never to go anywhere at all if it meant this would change.

Spencer's eyes were half closed. "I didn't ... I've never done that," he said, softly.

Brendon was startled. "You never what?" he asked. "Was that your totally perfect fairy tale first kiss, Spencer Smith?"

Spencer chuckled. "Kind of ... I mean, I've never done that before with someone who wasn't ..."

"Wasn't .... ?" Brendon prompted.

"Wasn't part of my pack," Spencer said. "Wasn't a werewolf."

"Oh," Brendon said. "Oh, wow."

"Yeah," Spencer said, kissing Brendon's forehead. "Thank you."

Brendon smiled into the soft skin over Spencer's collarbone. He closed his eyes. Spencer rubbed his thumb along one of Brendon's shoulder blades. The cicadas were trilling. Some bird called. Spencer's chest rose and fell.

They slept.

Brendon woke sometime much later, stiff and cold and very much alone.

He sat up, fast. The moon had risen, and it was huge and full. Spencer was nowhere to be seen. His clothing sat folded neatly where he'd left them, untouched, and imprinted in the soft earth at the edge of the water was an unmistakable set of paw prints. Brendon scrambled to his feet. He pulled on his jeans and stepped into his shoes. His throat was dry and his heart raced.

The path they'd followed up to the lake was blazed, but in the dark it was almost impossible to follow. He had a flashlight on his key chain, but the narrow beam of light was all but useless. The trees seemed huger and closer together than they had in the day. An owl hooted. Something rustled in the underbrush. Brendon called Spencer's name, again and again. Dark shapes loomed in the distance. His throat burned.

There was no answer. There was nothing, just the many incomprehensible night noises, innocuous during the day but enough in the dark to make chills climb up Brendon's spine. He stumbled over an unseen obstacle and caught himself with his hands; his palms stung, and the flashlight rolled out of sight. Then the dark was oppressive, even with the full moon's glow. Brendon coughed and tried to wipe the dirt from his face. He shook as he pushed himself to his feet. Not far away, some unseen animal howled, ragged and low. Brendon's skin vibrated. Every nerve was taut with fear.

Then he realized.

He called Spencer's name again, louder. He ran through the night towards the source of the noise. His sneakers slipped on the dewy litter of leaves. The wolf -- Spencer -- howled again, louder, very near. Brendon nearly sobbed with relief. The trees were thinning out; the ground was uneven. Brendon took a step, and the loose-packed earth gave way under his foot. He fell again, and this time his ankle hurt so badly he was all he could do not to cry. He tried to right himself, but the pain in his leg throbbed..

Something rustled in the dark, and Brendon went still. He saw the eyes first: silver and inhuman. Then, quietly, a dark figure slunk out from between the trees.

It was Spencer.

Brendon had never known such relief. Spencer padded closer. His soft, wet nose pressed gently against Brendon's neck, and then his pink tongue was licking the salty tears from his cheeks. Brendon threw his arms around Spencer's neck.

"I thought you left me," he said. "You should have stayed. I was so scared you left me."

There was a shifting, as sudden as water turning to steam, and the shape in his arms blurred and when it settled it was Spencer.

"I didn't mean to leave," he babbled. "I'm sorry. I was just scared that if I stayed you would ... you'd start thinking of me like that again, like your pet dog. I don't want that. I love you, Brendon. I didn't want to remind you that I'm not really human."

Brendon laughed, delirious from exhaustion and pain. "You idiot. Spence, I know what you are. I've know for months. I don't care. Why would you think I care?"

"I don't know," Spencer said. He was crying too. "I don't know. I just ... You make me feel like myself, Brendon. I didn't want to lose that. I love you."

"I love you too," Brendon said. He tried to sit up, to hug Spencer, but even the slightest weight made his ankle ache unbearably.

Spencer's eyes went wide when he heard Brendon's moan. "You're hurt," he said. "Fuck, Brendon ... I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Brendon said, through gritted teeth. His eyes watered from the pain.

"I'm going to pick you up," Spencer said. "It's gonna hurt."

Brendon braced himself and Spencer was gentle but the pain was terrible. Brendon grunted. His vision swam. Spencer staggered and Brendon clung.

"I've got you," Spencer said quietly. "Don't worry. It'll be okay."

"Always knew you had secret werewolf strength," Brendon mumbled weakly.

Spencer snorted. "It's not secret werewolf strength," he said. "You're just kind of shrimpy."

"Love you too," Brendon said. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against Spencer's chest. Despite the pain, he'd never felt so much like he'd come home.

~*~

"Oh, oh, I want a pickle, too," Brendon called. "And if we have any of those multigrain Sun Chips left ..."

"Dude, this isn't a deli," Spencer called from the kitchen.

"I know," Brendon said. "But I'm a poor, pathetic invalid, Spence, and you're like my knight in shining armor."

"You're totally mixing metaphors," Spence said, but when he set Brendon's sandwich down it was sliced in thirds just the way Brendon liked. The pickle and Sun Chips had not been forgotten. Brendon resettled his leg; the bulky cast on his ankle was coming off in a few weeks, but for the time being he was pretty much resigned to being anchored to the couch.

Spencer came back from the kitchen carrying two cans of soda and his own sandwich. He set everything down on the coffee table. "Do you need anything else?" he asked, hands on hips. "Because I'm definitely not getting up again. Not even if you get a sudden craving for sweet relish or brown mustard or ..."

"I'm not pregnant!" Brendon said, indignantly. "I just wanted a pickle. Is a pickle too much to ask?"

Spence smirked and sat beside him. He patted Brendon's thigh softly. "It's fine," he said. "It's not ... you know I don't mind."

"I thought we were done apologizing to each other," Brendon said.

Spencer turned a little. His face was soft. "I know. Sor -- I know."

Brendon punched him in the shoulder. "You suck," he said, fondly.

Spencer took a bite of his sandwich. Brendon shifted his weight again so he could reach for the remote. "There is literally nothing on television," he said. He paused on the Weather Channel. The high for the next day was a hundred and two. "You better drink a ton of water tonight or you're going to get heat stroke tomorrow. I'm going to have to get you a 'Spencer Smith, Dog Walker' baseball cap or something."

"I'll be fine," Spencer said.

Local on the Eights started over. Brendon bopped his head in time to the elevator music. The overnight forecast called for clear skies and --

"Full moon tonight," Brendon said, casually.

"I don't have to change, you know," Spencer said after a moment. "Not every time. That's part of the reason my pack ... Well, they thought I was a freak."

"You are a freak," Brendon said, matter-of-fact. "I know you reload the dishwasher after I do the dishes because it's not up to your standards."

"If it's not loaded properly the dishes don't come clean," Spencer said, pained, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"So you aren't going to go all Fluffy on me every full moon," Brendon said. "Good to know. Because the moon was full that night at the lake and ..."

Spencer set his sandwich down. "That was ... that was my fault," he said. "Outside, away from town -- away from people, it's harder to remember who I am. And it was the mid-summer moon. That's ... I was bitten during a mid-summer moon. I thought that with you there, I would be able to stop. I thought I would be able to remember myself."

Brendon frowned. Spencer stared straight ahead. His hair fell in his face. "You know I don't care," Brendon said. "You don't have to stop for me. If you need to do your wolf thing and go howl at the moon I'm all for it."

Spencer looked up, eyes bright, and he smiled one of those smiles that made Brendon's heart flutter. "I know," he said. "I know that, and yet I still wish I were normal."

"I hate to break it to you," Brendon said. "But being a werewolf is probably only the second or third weirdest thing about you. I've never met anyone else who alphabetizes their cereal."

"It makes it easier to find," Spencer said, defensively.

"So you say," Brendon said, patting his knee. "Seriously, though, I love you, no matter how weird you are. I mean, I'm kind of hoping this is the extent of the weirdness, but if you told me tomorrow you were a Russian secret agent or like, heir to an oil fortune, I'd still stick around."

"I know," Spencer said, leaning closer. "I love you."

Brendon smiled and kissed him.


End file.
